Les Aventures de Bahorel et Alberta
by civilizedrevolutionary
Summary: The story of a cow, the wraths of both Enjolras and Madame Hucheloup, and ultimately, how Bahorel got Les Amis de l'ABC temporarily banned from two restaurants in less than twenty-four hours.


**A/N:** **In case some of you are confused (I wouldn't blame you) the cow in question is the famous misplaced cow on the set of the Les Miserable (2012) film. I thought I'd give her a backstory and how she came to be at the barricade, but it turned into this instead. Maybe I'll write another chapter explaining that bit, who knows. **

Bahorel had never wanted to fight a man so badly as he did today.

It was true, he enjoyed the occasional light-hearted quarrel with his friends or putting down a brawl in a bar, but it was not so often as his friends believed that he truly wished to loosen his cravat, roll his sleeves up and sock a man square in the jaw. That was how he felt now as he walked sullenly behind Monsieur Blondeau to the law school. It had been a point of pride that he skirted his "responsibilities as a student of law, to protect the rights of our Mother's citizens", as Enjolras so often put it.

But here he was, trailing after the professor like a scolded dog.

He had been out with Pierre at the Corinthe before it had all happened. Yes, he'd had a drink or two, and _yes_, they'd been playing dominoes, but—Pierre was important in the revolution's future. He was a silver tongued devil, he was, and would be useful. Not only that, but he was well-liked by most, and charming when he needed to be—perfect for getting what he wanted and recruiting others to the cause. Bahorel had hoped to talk a few stubborn sellers into giving Les Amis de l'ABC some sort of discount for artillery for when the day came to fight. Enjolras, he knew, would be pleased. But things had turned out rather differently.

* * *

"Your play."

"Twelve."

"Eight."

"I'll shuffle."

"Domino."

"Blast it...three."

Bahorel watched Pierre casually, deciding not to worry about his dwindling funds as he cheerfully lost each round. He would find a way to win it back as he always did.

"Say, Pierre, did you think about what I told you last week? Me and the boys would like to know if you're in or not."

Pierre, a small, rather pudgy fellow, with small, bright eyes and a quick smile, nodded slowly to Bahorel as he kept his eyes on his dominoes.

"I did, actually." He paused, setting down his pair of dominoes. Bahorel cursed aloud as he counted the superior number of pips on the sides. Pierre smiled slightly.

"And?" Bahorel asked impatiently.

Pierre took his time in answering. He examined his cuticles, smudged with ink from his work at the printshop. Finally, he responded, "I'm afraid not. Can't risk it, _mon ami,_ what with all that's happening lately. Three boys were arrested last week, you know, suspected of plotting regicide."

Bahorel's blood heated as he shot a glare at Pierre. "Son of a —," he cursed loudly. "You said you were nearly certain last week—"

"Ah, but that was last week," Pierre said. "I've had time to think, and now I see this venture is rather foolish. I don't care to be numbered among your corpses when the National Guard shoots your naive arses."

There was a brief moment of silence as Pierre took a long swig of his drink, setting his glass down heavily.

It wasn't Bahorel's fault, really. Pierre had been asking for it.

Before he knew it Bahorel had lunged across the table and hit Pierre squarely in the jaw, causing Pierre to reel back in shock. There was a sudden clamor as they grappled with each other, rising from their seats and knocking a few glasses from the table to the floor in their struggle. Pierre hit surprisingly well, splitting Bahorel's bottom lip and almost certainly adding a new bruise to his collection. Bahorel was proud to see Pierre suffer worse, perhaps even a broken nose.

"What in the devil—" In that next moment, Madame Hucheloup's portly form was between them, holding them apart with her red hands. Her stern scowl made her usually cheerful countenance terrible, and Bahorel would not have been ashamed to admit his fear at that moment.

"You—" she wagged a finger dangerously close to Bahorel's face—"what did I tell you about your fights in here?"

Bahorel attempted a charming smile as Pierre stealthily snuck out the door to escape the restaurant owner's wrath.

"So sorry, Madame," he said sincerely, "but it was a point of honor. You know how it is—"

"I very well know how it is! You'll pay me for those glasses, Monsieur, and you and your friends—those other boys you always bring along—aren't to come here again for a month! A day earlier and I'll have your behinds flayed! 'I know how it is,'" she muttered angrily as she called a serving girl over to clean up the mess. "We'll see how it is, indeed."

With an inward sigh Bahorel handed her the last of his money which hadn't been gambled away with Pierre. He would have liked to say that he had held his head high as he strode out, but that would have been fruitless, seeing how every single customer and serving girl had their faces practically pressed against the windows to watch Bahorel's exit of shame. He made it only a few paces down the street to God knew where, when Fate decided to step in.

"Monsieur Bahorel! What a surprise."

Bahorel's blood ran cold and he froze upon hearing the voice of his enemy. He slowly turned around and didn't bother to hide his grimace as he faced his law professor, Monsieur Blondeau.

"I just finished my lunch. Fancy seeing you here. I assume you will be attending my lecture?" Monsieur Blondeau peered at him over thin wire glasses resting atop a pointedly malicious nose. He no doubt noted Bahorel's freshly spilt lip, as could be seen by his little huff and shake of the head.

Bahorel nodded. "Actually—" he began with a laugh, ready to smooth-talk his way out of the mess.

"I see you're quite unoccupied. Good. Come along now, or it looks like you won't be passing your exam next week. Lucky I found you here today. Now, perhaps, you may save yourself the trouble of repeating my class next year."

"Oh, I'm sure I'd be honored," Bahorel muttered under his breath.

"Did you say something?"

And that was how Bahorel's day went from bad to worse.

* * *

"_Mon Dieu_, you look like hell, Bahorel," Courfeyrac commented lightly as Bahorel stormed into the Musain. "Who was it this time?"

"Blondeau," growled Bahorel in response as he dropped down to a seat next to Courfeyrac.

"Well, the old man has a much stronger arm than I'd have given him credit for then," Courfeyrac said, chuckling, as he obligingly poured Bahorel a glass of wine in an empty cup and pushed it to him, awaiting the stormy rant that was no doubt about to come pouring from Bahorel with a smile. "What, did you actually attend a lecture today?"

Bahorel drained the glass and set it down with a heavy thud, shooting Courfeyrac a glare. "The longest hour of my life. Blondeau has it in for me, I swear. No, the fight was with Pierre—Blanchard. It looks like the coward won't be helping us with the equipment after all." He related the events of the past few hours to Courfeyrac, who knew just when to make the appropriate sounds of sympathy and disbelief at certain parts of the story.

"Well, I suppose we'll figure some other way out of this, then," Courfeyrac said cheerfully as he downed another glass of wine. Bahorel scoffed, looking around the room for his friends scattered around the room. He caught Jehan's eye at a table opposite the room, and he grinned upon seeing the light haired poet's eyes light up as he hurried to meet Bahorel.

"Ah, Jehan! You'll never guess who I pounded into the earth today, it—"

Bahorel stopped mid-sentence, suddenly catching sight of the man whom Jehan had brought over.

"Hello, Bahorel," Pierre said too brightly, his face discolored with black and purple patches.

Bahorel watched him warily, wondering if he was about to hit him. Pierre stretched out a hand and Bahorel managed not to flinch, but returned the smile and shook his hand.

"So…" Bahorel began, not a little uneasily. "I suppose we are comrades again?"

Pierre nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Of course. I'm here to make amends. We can be useful to each other, you know, as I was telling Prouvaire here. On one condition."

Bahorel shrugged. "Yes?"

"I'm neck-deep in this anyhow, so I might as well take the risk. Let's play dominoes. You win, I'll talk to the artillery man." He paused, a rather sly look creeping into his eyes. "I win, you take a cow off my hands."

Bahorel laughed sarcastically. "That's not a nice thing to say about a girl, Pierre. I've got a girl of my own, and I'm fairly honest."

Pierre's face turned an unnatural shade, and it looked as though he were holding back tears. "Of course, _mon ami,_ forgive my rudeness. She's a sweet girl, truly. But I'm sure you will prove me wrong and win, thus getting what you wanted in the first place."

Courfeyrac tugged on Bahorel's sleeve with a look of urgency. "Bahorel, no offense, _mon ami_, but you're terrible at dominoes. Have you ever even won a single game?"

Jehan swatted Courfeyrac away. "Don't doubt Bahorel. Of course he can do it."

Bahorel beamed, already beginning to strategize. He nodded to Pierre, and with confidence Bahorel began to imagine the look of gratitude on his friends' faces when they heard about his victory.

* * *

"You…meant an actual cow?"

The next day, Bahorel and Pierre stood in front of a stall marked "Blanchard" in chalk at the livery stable after Bahorel's singular defeat. Bahorel stared at the hairy creature within, chewing cud and flicking flies away with her tail with a disinterested expression.

Pierre clipped a rope to her harness cheerfully and handed it to Bahorel, who took it numbly. Had he really just lost a game of dominoes and gotten a cow for it? What were his friends going to think?

How was this _his_ loss?

"Thank you, Bahorel," Pierre said cheerfully, clapping Bahorel on the back. "I'm sure you and the old girl will be the best of friends."

Before he could hurry off, Bahorel pulled Pierre back firmly. "Wait. What am I supposed to do with her? Why do you _have_ a cow? How many..." he paused as he glanced back at the unblinking creature.

Pierre sighed. "My father's. He had an arrangement with the owner of this place, and kept her here. He died last week, and I've been left with her. She's a Tarentaise. Rather...stubborn, refuses to be milked, and would make for rather stringy meat. Couldn't get a decent price for her anywhere. I figured I might as well get her off my hands this way."

Bahorel grinned. "Well, I suppose I can make room."

Of course, suiting Bahorel's style, he never paused to consider just _where_ he would be making room for a cow.

As Pierre dashed off, Bahorel regarded the cow with a curious eye. Her whole body was of a reddish-brown sort of color, except for her face, which looked as though it had been plunged into a bucket of white paint. Her withers were stooping and her haunches weak, but Bahorel didn't recognize these things, for he was no expert in the science of cows. Her body was riddled with the painful bites of horseflies, and her left ear looked as though some creature had taken a bite out of it.

"What a beauty," Bahorel murmured.

He couldn't wait to show Les Amis.

* * *

"She's the most beautiful creature," Bahorel said proudly to Jehan. "With big, soulful brown eyes that shine like liquid gold and shiny red hair—"

Bahorel had gone back to the Musain to bring Jehan to the livery to figure out what to do with the cow—who was yet to be named. Jehan offered many lovely suggestions (many of them after famous poets and musicians, but Bahorel was not too keen on dubbing the cow 'Coleridge'—what was that even supposed to _mean_?) which Bahorel politely said he'd consider, if only for Jehan's sake. Finally, they had agreed on Alberta, as Bahorel declared she had a "wise and noble look about her." Jehan had deemed it best not to argue further.

"Have a new mistress already, Bahorel?"

Bahorel turned to see Courfeyrac coming out of Monsieur Lafite's bakery with a box of pastries. It took him a moment to come to the conclusion that Courfeyrac must have overheard his last comment to Jehan. He grinned, winking at Jehan.

"I'll introduce her, if you'd like."

Courfeyrac looked at him curiously. "Really? What about Suzanne? You always told me how much you enjoyed her good humor."

Bahorel shrugged. "You'll understand soon, Courfeyrac. All in good time, _mon ami_."

As they neared the livery, Courfeyrac nudged him teasingly. "Ah, Bahorel, have you fallen for one of those porcelain-faced milkmaids of fairy tales? Does she at this moment await her handsome gentleman to take her away?"

Jehan shook his head at Courfeyrac's mockery, but let a quiet snort of laughter escape him, no doubt thinking about the sight Courfeyrac was about to see.

"_Mon Dieu_, this place is rather a homely setting for love," Courfeyrac commented. Bahorel led him to the stall containing his newfound pride and joy.

Bahorel stopped, beaming, as he waved Courfeyrac over to the stall.

"So?"

"Is she supposed to be around somewhere—"

Bahorel shook his head. "Here she is, stall 104."

Courfeyrac stared uncomprehendingly for a few seconds at the creature nonchalantly munching away at some hay, huge eyes fixed on him.

"Really?"

Bahorel nodded.

Courfeyrac burst into laughter. "It was the bet, wasn't it? Dear God, Bahorel, what have you gotten yourself into?"

"She's a sweetheart," Bahorel said defensively, patting Alberta on the head. "Her name is Alberta. Bertie for brevity."

Courfeyrac groaned. "Oh, _no_, Bahorel, you cannot let Enjolras know about this." He paused. "On second thought, do. I must see how this ends. And besides, she's no sweetheart, but my future meal."

Both Jehan and Bahorel let out a unified gasp of shock.

"Courfeyrac how could you?" Jehan asked, horror filling his eyes. "Bertie will be our pet."

"And where will you keep her?"

Bahorel hesitated. He hadn't considered that. "We'll find a place. As for now, Jehan and I must get her ready to leave. Since we can't afford to board her here any longer, we're on the streets in a minute or two. Would you like to stay and help?"

Courfeyrac chuckled. "I'm afraid not. I must be getting home. You'll come to the Musain tonight?"

Bahorel nodded.

"Then I'll see you there, _mon ami_. Truly, I wish you luck." And off Courfeyrac went, shaking his head and brushing bits of dust and hay from his spotless trousers and hat.

When he was gone, Bahorel turned to Jehan, who wore a look of doubt on his face. "Ah, brighten up, Jehan. We can go search for a cheaper inn or stable to keep old Bertie there. As far as I'm concerned, this is the best thing to ever happen to us. Say, let's pick up some food on the way to the Musain tonight. I've rather tired of their meager pickings. What do you think about Lafite's?"

Jehan's smile was a little less optimistic as they led Bertie out of the livery.

* * *

"Bahorel, _no_," Courfeyrac whispered in horror as he held the back door of the Musain open.

Bertie mooed, and Bahorel hushed her gently, tearing a chunk of the croissant in his right hand to feed her. She munched it happily and butted his behind firmly with her head.

"Bahorel, _yes_," Bahorel replied cheerfully. He turned serious. "Courfeyrac, I couldn't find anyplace to take her. Perhaps...?"

"Enjolras will kill me," Courfeyrac said. "Madame Moulier will kill me if she finds out a cow has been in her cafe. Bahorel, what happens if she...?"

"Ah, don't worry," Bahorel said, "she already dropped her turds on a man's hat after lunch. Please," he whispered, glancing back at Bertie, afraid she might somehow overhear and understand him, "she's stomped on my feet so many times today I don't even want to know what color they are inside my boots."

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted just then by Enjolras, who shouldered his way through the doorway.

"Courfeyrac, what's taking so long, we're about to start—" Enjolras first met Bahorel's eyes, then his gaze shifted to Bertie. "Bahorel—what—is—_that_?"

Bahorel looked at the cow, then at the croissant in his hand. "A croissant," he said with a smile. "Delicious. From Monsieur Lafite's bakery." He held the half-eaten pastry out to Enjolras, who smacked his hand away.

Bertie stepped forward and shoved her way through Courfeyrac and Enjolras, who nearly fell over. Bahorel gave them both a look of apology as he was yanked along by Bertie through the cramped hallway. When they reached the large back room, those who were trapped in conversation fell silent, turning their attention to Bahorel and his bovine companion.

"Bahorel—" Enjolras caught up with him and tugged on Bertie's halter. "Get her _out—_before Madame Moulier finds out."

"Her _name_ is Alberta. A name as noble and fragrant as her lumps," Jehan pitched in, coming from behind Bahorel and narrowly missing a sudden kick from Bertie's hind leg.

As though on cue, Bertie lifted her tail. Les Amis de l'ABC looked on in horror as she fulfilled Jehan's little verse, leaving a steaming pile of it in the middle of the room.

The men were rather quiet, and watched with an air of calm surrender as Bertie began clomping heavily through the room, yanking the rope attached to her halter from Bahorel's hands, licking and nudging chairs and tables. Grantaire seemed to jump three feet out of his chair when Bertie began nibbling on his unruly mop of black curls. It appeared as though he debated fighting for his meal on the table, but gave in when Bertie began to eat the remaining bites of his apple.

Bertie mooed loudly at Combeferre and knocked him off of his feet with a head-butt.

"Bahorel, get ahold of your cow!" Combeferre shouted as his spectacles were knocked from his face. As he crouched down on the floor, searching with his hands, Bertie began to gallop around the room, plowing into tables and overturning chairs. She reached a table scattered with papers, and looked at Enjolras across the room as though daring him to stop her. Enjolras turned ashen, recognizing his hand-written speeches which had been the fruit of days of labor.

"My papers..."

There was a moment of suspense as Bertie's hairy and wet muzzle grazed Enjolras' papers. Enjolras slowly began to walk towards her, perhaps thinking that sudden movement would cause her to react faster. She snorted, and Bahorel believed that in that moment, if she had been able to speak, her words would have been something along the lines of, "Stupid humans. Look at your precious papers now," just as she chomped down on a thick stack of Enjolras' organized speeches.

Enjolras let out a furious battle cry as he careened across the room to Bertie, attempting to salvage his speeches. He tugged against Bertie's impossible bulk, but it was in vain. When he did finally rescue the papers, they were sodden with saliva and torn to shreds.

"_Oh la vache! _What is going on in here?"

Even Bertie stopped what she was doing when the harsh tone of Madame Moulier rang across the room. She had burst through the back door, likely having come from around the front of the regular cafe. As she surveyed the mess of the room, Bahorel couldn't help but snigger at her choice expletive, given how fitting it was for the circumstance.

That was his mistake.

Madame Moulier turned her furious glare to Bahorel and marched up to him. "_You—_it was you, wasn't it, you sorry piece of—" she swore loudly and for a long time. Meanwhile, Bahorel risked a glance to Bertie, who was mooing loudly as she was being led away by Jehan out the back door.

"Do not come back," Madame Moulier spat. "_Ever. _Or so help me, Bahorel—" she turned to the other men in the room. _"_Out! All of you!"

They all hurriedly left, casting annoyed glances at Bahorel as they passed. When only Madame Moulier and Bahorel remained, Bahorel cleared his throat.

"Madame..."

"Not a word."

"I'll make it up to you—"

"Like hell you will."

An idea occurred to Bahorel. He suppressed a grin and made a solemn promise to Madame Moulier.

* * *

That night, Pierre Blanchard and Bahorel were working well into the night to clean up Bertie's mess. With only a little bit of blackmail and a few well-timed flexes of his impressive biceps, he had convinced Pierre into helping clean up his own mess.

"Damn you, Bahorel. I'll take her back," Pierre said with a resigned sigh. "I should have known what would happen in the first few hours if your thick self was given any responsibility."

"I do resent that," Bahorel said. "What will you do with her?"

"Eat her."

Bahorel glared at him, and Pierre shook his head quickly. "Only joking."

"Perhaps you should bother Madame Hucheloup about it."

Pierre snorted. "What will she do about a cow who won't be milked and can't be sold for meat?"

"Pierre, _mon ami,_ have you met the woman? If anyone can get the cow to be milked, it is Madame Hucheloup."

After a considerable pause, Pierre finally agreed. After all, in regards to Bahorel, that was always the best course of action, considering their previous encounters.

A few minutes later, Bahorel heard Pierre scream. _Ah, _he thought fondly, _he must have found Bertie's little gift. _


End file.
